


O, Children

by TheVineSpeaketh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Angst and Tragedy, Crimes & Criminals, Crying, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1963833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVineSpeaketh/pseuds/TheVineSpeaketh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had tried to rid himself of pain like this long ago, when he had woken from a fever to hear the airship had gone down and only he and one other man had crawled out of the wreckage alive. It had worked, but it hadn't lasted. Sherlock had kindled a fiery blood in him that roared when he was near, and without him as the catalyst, John Watson was embers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O, Children

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NuanceNight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuanceNight/gifts), [LannaMisho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LannaMisho/gifts).



> Nick Cave and the Bad Seed's song of the same name is to blame for this angsty terror.

There he stood, a tall proud thing, shoulders wide and cloaked in black, his favored coat still hanging around his frame. His errant curls were more askew than usual, his eyes heavily lidded and his lashes brushing his cheeks. He was pale, a bit of dried blood still plastered to his forehead where he had been beaten. There was a crowd all around him, none of their heads higher than where he stood on the pedestal, his shoes, usually pristine, caked in mud, the ends of the legs of his pants scraped and cut, covered in mud. His white shirt was visible through where the coat was open, proving to be severely dirtied as well. Despite the current state of him, he stood proud and tall, his hands tied behind his back, his chin high and his eyes staring straight forward.

He didn't see the face desperately seeking his gaze in the crowd, the wide, worried blue eyes of his doctor inspecting him from afar, wishing desperately he could reach out and check him, pull him down from his proud stance and truly see if he was okay. He wanted to hold his face in his hands, to look into his steely eyes and see the barest pieces of him, the way he could see them sometimes across the dinner table when he had gotten him to smile.

His lips were drawn in a terse line now, and he only wished he could see him smile again.

Oh, Sherlock.

The crowd around him was rustling, hushed voices chattering to one another as they waited for the call to silence. An execution, the murmur spreading through the crowd like an illness, and John Watson was hit hardest by it. He still couldn't believe it was true. He knew Sherlock had committed no crime--he had always been nearest to him, besides his brother--and he knew that the only way to stop this was to raise his voice, to call attention to it, because he was living proof that Sherlock Holmes had not committed any fraud, because he watched him work his wonders. 

He _would_ have spoken, had Sherlock not expressly forbidden him to do so. Something new had been in Sherlock's eyes the night before the constable and the police had stormed their home. Even in the dim light of the only lamp they dared to light, John could see it: a fresh kind of pain in Sherlock's eyes as he told John  _no_ , _do not tell them I am innocent and that you are proof_. Even without Sherlock saying why, John knew the reason; he would become a walking target if they knew that John Watson was a threat, and then they would both be on the soapbox to be made a mockery of, before the firing line to be made an example of. John Watson had not bitten his tongue and accepted it. He had ranted and raved, throwing himself away from his chair and shouting, unable to accept that Sherlock Holmes would walk alone when John could help him. 

Somehow, it had devolved from there, until John was certain half of the house was torn apart and he was definitely bleeding from where he'd made a hole in the wall. He had run out of steam just as the sun had begun to rise and had collapsed to the floor, hands limp in his lap as he sobbed, feeling so helpless after years of being so strong. Sherlock had rushed to him, gathering him in his arms and pulling him into his body, and John had gone, accepting the comfort despite the marvel of its rarity. He had curled his hand into Sherlock's shirt and wept into his collarbone, and Sherlock had absorbed his sorrow with a stoic face but a hammering heart.

John could see the bloody handprint in his shirt from where he stood, not too close as to not draw attention to himself, but not so far away that he couldn't count Sherlock's pulse from where he could see it hammering in his throat, couldn't match the tempo of his deep breathing. He felt cold without being wrapped in him. He wondered if Sherlock's arms felt empty without him in them.

New feelings were settling low beneath his collarbone, swelling, ill, and because of them, this felt worse than dying.

The crowd was hushed suddenly as the constable walked upon the soapbox, his two other inspectors, Anderson and Donovan--John remembered them well, because they had voiced their doubts, called Sherlock a witch, and driven Sherlock to the stake--followed him, standing one on each side of Sherlock, not reaching as high as he could, looking much less poised, and how could he bear to hold that stance for so long? The constable looked very full of regret as he pulled a note from his pocket, unfolding the parchment and standing at attention, though it slipped mere moments later. John thought that maybe he would have been a good man to have on the airship with him back when he was part of the Royal Battalion. He would have been one of the better parts of the Fifth Northumberland, though now his heart was blackened with sorrow, and he looked older than he ever had.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, his voice clear and cutting the last of the murmurs into silence, "has been convicted of crimes against the Kingdom and Her Majesty, which are composed of the following: numberless counts of fraudulent activity, dishonest conduct toward Her Majesty's Enforcers, and several counts of murder. The punishment for these crimes is death, the duty of which has been assigned to Her Majesty's Enforcers. If there is any objection to these charges, please speak now."

He lifted his head, looking into the crowd. John could feel the words surging in his throat, and he even opened his mouth, but he looked to Sherlock to see that gaze fixed on him, piercing and all at once scolding, and John froze in place, defiance and fear waging a war within him. 

He could not make his choice before Constable Lestrade said, "very well," and removed himself from the pedestal, Donovan and Anderson following. John did not turn to watch them go, instead leaving his gaze fixed on Sherlock's, which had not yet moved away from him. He could hear Lestrade shouting orders to the officers lined up behind them, but he did not comprehend them. Sherlock's eyes were softening more by the second, his mouth slowly slipping into something softer as well, and John knew this was all a mistake. He could see the dead body of James Moriarty laying on the pavement, surrounded by his blood, a morbid smile on his face, and he knew that Sherlock could not have stolen his life. John had stolen many before in the name of the Queen, and he had not once turned soft eyes to anybody as he did so.

Flintlock rifles were being loaded behind him, and they clicked into place just as he could get a word away from his lips. "No."

Sherlock's soft lips turned up in a smile, even as his brows knit in the middle and his eyes grew blurred. John's heart was dying, he could feel it, those new feelings turning bitter and wilting within him, and he was sick, he was sure of it, the scent of murder everywhere, the hungry eyes around him all waiting with baited breath for their morsel of pain. John had tried to rid himself of pain like this long ago, when he had woken from a fever to hear the airship had gone down and only he and one other man had crawled out of the wreckage alive. It had worked, but it hadn't lasted. Sherlock had kindled a fiery blood in him that roared when he was near, and without him as the catalyst, John Watson was embers.

The rifles were ready. Lestrade was readying the men.

"No."

The men took aim. Sherlock Holmes's eyes slid closed. John slowly felt something crawling through him: blind panic, maybe. He was dying, he was sure of it. Oh, God, they were dying together, even when Sherlock was dying alone. John wanted to raise his voice, to say something, but it was too late. He could not die alongside his comrade, a survivor once again of tragedy and the product of war. Would John Watson ever die? Or was he doomed to wander this earth watching every face he grew to love fade from his memory?

He couldn't do this. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't do  _anything_.

"Fire!"

The roar of the rifles drowned out John Watson's anguished scream.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr!](http://exacteyewriting.tumblr.com)


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